The Price of Being Leader
by HuntressDaugher
Summary: Written for the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. When the almighty Spot Conlon gets sick, it's up to the boys of Brooklyn to rally together to help him, and they get a look at just what it takes to be the King of Brooklyn.


**This was written for the first circulation of the Newsies Pape Selling Competition. My task was to write about my favorite newsie getting sick, and I used the prompts yellow and "What do we have here?" According to my computer, the word count (excluding this note) is 1976 words.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Newsies_.**

It looked like an ordinary jar. The lid was missing, and there was a crack running the length of the side, but an ordinary jar nonetheless, filled mostly with pennies and littered with other change. Many children had such jars, and even some adults, when saving for a desire. In reality, this jar had been taken from the grocery store alley and swabbed out, and it was now the sole purpose for the Brooklyn newsboys to make a profit every day.

Now, after they had all paid their boarding fees and emptied the remainder of their pockets to the jar, Ringer took it down from it's place at the counter while forty pairs of eyes watched his every move. Usually easy and calm, the tenseness he displayed sent a wave of dread throughout the silent boys, and they either shuffled nervously or froze in place. Pitch, sitting atop Taps' shoulders, tightened his grip on the bigger boy's head, and in return, Taps patted his leg.

The change clattered noisily on the table, and when it settled, the only other sound was the wet, hacking cough from the sleeping area.

The little boys turned their heads to the room, looking at it with lost expressions, while the older ones closed their eyes or set their mouths in a thin line. Ringer swallowed hard and reached for the scant bills, smoothing them out carefully before he moved on to the change.

Across the room, the front door is flung back, and a sudden gust of harsh November wind chilled the downstairs. Hair sticking up in all directions and threadbare scarf almost off his neck, in scurried Shots with a bowl pressed to his chest, and without a glance towards the other boys, he was up the stairs without shutting the door. He returned a few seconds later, kicking the door closed and tossing a nickel towards the jar before shooting back upstairs.

The upstairs was divided into three sections. There was the bathroom, with aged, poorly-working appliances and a dingy feel, but due to the routine keep-up, it was fairly clean and orderly, save for a towel wadded up on the floor and a pair of underwear dangling from a showerhead, which would have earned the owners extra cleaning duties under normal circumstances. The main space was occupied by three even rows of bunks; the beds had been hastily made, as the rules called for, and from each little nail at the end hung some kind of personal item—an extra shirt, a ratty cap, a pack of playing cards held together with string. Some had quilts on them that had probably seen better days but were much appreciated in the winter.

At the far end was a narrow little room with a plain door, occupied by the current newsboy leader. It wasn't much better than the bunk room, but it had its own dresser—not that it was anywhere close to being filled—and window overlooking his city. A few books, which no one could ever figure out where he got, littered the top of the dresser, as well as a comb and the trademark, faded-red suspenders and cap.

There was a new addition to the little room. When Shots peeked around the doorframe, he found the place glowing softly with light from an old oil lamp on the nightstand. To the right of the lamp was a tiny boy, no older than four, perched on the edge of the bed with a book of his own in his hands; and next to him, propped up halfway on the bed, was their king.

"Well, what do we have here? Keeping him company, Peep?" Shots whispered to the boy. His shaggy blond hair fell in his wide brown eyes, and when he jerked his head once in affirmation, it flopped wildly. Shots grinned. "I bet he's doing a lot better now."

But the toothy smile from their silent little ward disappeared; he looked down worriedly at the Brooklyn leader, and Shots couldn't help but sigh.

They'd found the boy outside the lodging house one night, barely old enough to walk and clad in rags worse than their own, and not having the heart to put him in the orphanage, had taken him in, christening him Peep since he'd never cried.

Spot had taken a special liking to the child, toting him around when he sold and making sure he was adequately clothed and fed. There was a weekly children's book that came out, and it was guaranteed that Peep would have it that evening. Everyone in the lodging house was certain Peep talked to Spot, but neither would confirm this.

They'd tried their best with him during the past week, but they hadn't done as well as Spot; Peep's hair was slightly mussed, his shirt wrinkled, and there was something on his face, but whether it was food or dirt was unknown. Multiple times Ringer and the older boys had chased him out of Spot's room in fear he was contagious, but Peep had always ended up next to Spot.

"He's read to me all day," came another voice, weak but firm. It shook Shots attention, and he immediately turned his gaze from Peep to the other person in the room.

Spot's startling blue eyes met his, and he made an effort to sit up, resulting in a fit of coughs. Shots held out his forgotten bowl. "Hey, man. I brought you dinner."

"You brought me dinner last night. And the two before that."

"You gotta eat," Shots replied quietly, losing courage and fearing a reprimand.

"Have you?"

"Yes." It was an honest answer; he had eaten a late lunch and a bag of peanuts from a street vendor a few hours ago in attempt to hold himself over until the morning.

"What about him?" Of course he would think about Peep over himself. "Have you eaten, Peep?"

The child hesitated, and it took only that much for Spot to make his decision. "Pour him some."

As Shots went to search for another bowl, all he could think of was a distant night when he'd worried it would be his last, and he'd stumbled down the street. And then someone had been over him asking when he'd eaten last. Next thing he knew he had found himself somewhere warm with something good in front of him.

Shots decided then and there that Spot absolutely had to get better.

"Hey, Shots, Ringer wants to know where Peep is."

"In Spot's room," was the reply from under the counter where the Jar had sat.

"See if you can get him out. He ain't listening to Ringer."

As Shots took the bowl, which he'd wiped out with the bottom of his shirt, back upstairs and tried to get Peep down, Ringer stared at the total in front of him.

No one spoke, instead choosing to wait on the leader pro tempore. Over the years, he had developed a blank expression second only to Spot's; now, however, the lack of emotion was not reassuring. A feeling of dread draped itself over the crowd, knowing that if they had done it, then Ringer wouldn't be sitting stoically in his seat. The younger boys didn't quite understand, and they looked back and forth between the older faces, searching for something reassuring, anything to hold onto.

Finally someone pipes up, shakily and hushed. "How much, Ringer?"

"Fifty-eight seventy-two." With that, Ringer dropped all the money back into the Jar, shoved away from the table, which succeeded in giving him a splinter, and headed to the roof.

Not even the night brought relief; in what should have been stillness, the clamor of industry echoed off the factories and tenement houses and streets paved with the sweat of the working horde. This was supposed to be a safe place, a place where one could collect racing thoughts and emotions that would only make things worse. But it wasn't. It was a place filled with past discussions and lessons that were not helping.

Gripping the frozen railing, he peered over the side of the building, far below into the city streets, where fog curled in a yellow vapor, rubbing against all in its path and against the window panes, which glowed warmly from the light inside. Tired, he huffed, and watched as his breath faded into the dark.

He couldn't count the nights he'd spent up there if he tried, though the ones he'd spent alone wouldn't fill a hand. There had always been Spot, peering over the rail at his city, head high no matter what. Spot, weary and wise beyond his years, but never to let anyone see.

In the summer, when the heat sweltered to unbearable degrees, he would always escape to the roof, chest bared to the weather and lean muscles gleaming, and for once he would be relaxed, laughing wryly with something resembling a real smile, not the accustomed smirk; or he would reveal what was on his mind, the troubles others had given to him, even those of his own. It was always the same, though, him always watching the city, his city, with icy eyes that saw everything. Ringer would offer advice, or try to offer advice, when called for, but it seemed Spot always knew what to do and was only testing him.

A man far below grappled for his hat as a gust of wind threatened to cart it away, and a block down the street a lady adjusted her furs. This wasn't his job-it was Spot's. It should be Spot watching the people; after all, they were his.

Then he thought about the boys in the house. Spot's boys. Not Ringer's boys, Spot's boys. He had done so much for them, had kept them safe and made sure they were provided for. They idolized him, and when the time came to return the favor, they hadn't been able to do it. Sleepless nights and a week of hunger hadn't been able to be enough to pay him back for the years he had gone without new clothes or days without a decent meal. They hadn't been enough.

Thinking about it, Ringer realized there was a way to get the money, but the mere idea of it was beyond daunting. He would have to be secretive and not let any of the other boys know where he'd gotten it. Then again, Spot knew everything. And if Spot knew this, he would be mortified, and Ringer didn't doubt that he would end up dead.

Was this what it was like to be the leader? He'd spent the week yelling and cracking the whip, dealing out punishment to the rule breakers and dragging a toddler away from the only source of guidance he'd ever known, and now he had become the bearer of bad news. And he felt so alone and old.

If this was what it meant to be the leader, he didn't want the job. It all made sense now, was all so damnably clear, as to why Spot was seemed so aloof, never letting anyone see past his stony smirk, except for those nights on the roof with his second-in-command.

Finally his mind was made up. Every day, Spot made decisions for the good of his boys, and more often than not, it didn't benefit him. More often than not, Spot took the beating. It was Ringer's turn to step up and be the person Spot had helped him become. The right choice was blatantly before him, and if he didn't take it, he would be a coward who had no right to Spot's trust. So what if Spot killed him afterwards? At least he had done what was best. At least he would have would have done what Spot would do, and because of that, Spot would make it.


End file.
